Chapter 43 Warm Blue Skies
Chapter forty-three
Warm Blue Skies
I keep her close to me, seeing an immense shift in her body language. She's tight and uncomfortable. Morose. Guarded.
“Thank you,” Sarah says thickly.
As she looks up at me, I observe her eyes swimming with tears.
I glance at her briefly as I work to steer us back to where we were sitting. “No thanks needed, sweetness. Are you okay to sit through the rest of the seminars, or do you want to go back to the room to lay down?” I ask quietly as we approach our row.
I wait as she settles herself into her seat, fussing with her hair and getting comfortable before I sit.
She looks at me as I adjust my suit jacket before leaning back and settling my arm across the back of her seat. “I’d like to sit through some more; I mean, that’s the reason why I came. Not to hide the whole time because I had an unfortunate flashback…” She trails off, putting her purse in her lap.
She nonchalantly pulls the program out of a side pocket and opens it.
Her eyes flicker back and forth, following her finger sliding down the page.
Though I can't blame her, I can tell she's putting on a facade to hide what just happened, and I'll be damned if this woman hides anything from me.
I want it all. Every emotion, dirty or clean.
I lean a little more into her space, making sure to keep my voice low. “Sarah, what did he say?”
A hesitant look flits across her features, and she fusses with the leather handle of her purse as if she's trying to find something to comfort her.
The interviewer and new speaker begin to talk as she places her mouth to my ear.
My hand, braced on my thigh, trembles slightly when the soft tresses of her hair suddenly tumble into my lap. She's not aware of it, though.
Nor is she aware that I've tangled my fingers in the strands, rubbing gently.
“It wasn’t what he said; it was the way he made me feel,” she whispers quietly, and a hot shiver rolls its way up my back at the way her lips lightly brush the shell of my ear.
“Something about him reminded me of Brandon; it was his energy. Thank you so much for stepping in when you did.” When she pulls away to settle back into her chair, her long hair trails through my fingertips whisper-soft.
I'm reluctant to let her go, so I put my hand in hers and thread our fingers together. She makes no movement, but I can feel her eyes on where we're clasped. My heart beats a bit harder at how right it feels, and I wonder if she thinks so too, but her phone pings suddenly, distracting her.
"Oops, sorry." She glances apologetically out the side of her eye before moving to pull out her phone with her free hand.
Something like anger swirls deep in my chest when the screen lights up, and I continue to stare.
I don't mean to be nosy, but I want to know if that idiot fucker of an employee of mine has texted her. The fingers of her left hand twitch in mine as she inhales a sharp breath, and my own narrow upon seeing Brandon’s name. Not Dickhead David.
My fingers tighten on hers as I read the text.
Brandon: I was thinking about what we would have named our baby... and I think we could have picked a simple name like Katherine. I miss you, Sarah. I think about you all the time, and I just want you to know how sorry I am. For everything.
That motherfucker.
Immeasurable anger slices through my being before being replaced by concern. My eyes slide to her face, assessing her quietly.
Sarah visibly stiffens before making a choked sound.
The phone dims, and she goes deathly still, still staring at the screen.
I don't react, aware that she needs a minute to let his words sink in to her consciousness.
She blinks, and my chest tightens with sympathetic hurt when tears leak out of her eyes onto her cheeks.
I'm five seconds from snatching her phone and breaking it when she jerks in the seat, dispelling that thought quickly. My hand tightens on her shoulder, but she stands up in a rush, stumbling as she tries to get out of the row.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I c-can’t do this,” she chokes out, swiping her tears away as she makes it past me and out into the aisle.
Rising, I'm quickly behind her, mindfully keeping a step behind as she briskly walks through the auditorium doors. Letting herself out before I can even hold the door open for her.
Her short gait is nothing for me to catch up to, and soon I'm step-in-step beside her fighting to not break the silence. Painfully aware she needs a moment to process.
Sarah's face is flushed with emotion. My eyes prick at the tiny whimpers bravely trapped in her throat as we journey silently through the marble lobby.
I can tell she's fighting as hard as she can to walk to the elevator calmly.
To her credit, she manages it quite gracefully.
Though, to my utter dismay, she seems like she can't even tell it's me behind her she's so desperate to flee.
That man turned her inside out. Made her wary and scared. Even of me.
My fears are validated when she flinches when I join her in the empty elevator.
Her wide eyes meet mine, full of shock and shiny with tears.
I feel my jaw tick as I reach my hand out to grab her; however, she promptly turns her back to me.
In the mirrored elevator, she clasps her hands together hard, obviously trying to stem the shaking. Her eyes are squeezed shut even harder.
My heart, already pounding, breaks in half at how lost she is.
"We're almost to the room, baby," I reassure her quietly, keeping my distance. Not wanting to startle her or make her feel even more overwhelmed than she already is. "It's going to be okay."
A small tingle of shame flows through me.
I discard all pretense that the attraction I already knew was between us hasn't blossomed into something deeper.
Tangible. It snuck up on us like a secret in the night, and all it needed was an opportunity to deepen its roots.
I have no time to muse over it because the sensitive situation at hand requires every ounce of attention and care I can give it, and I can't have my focus being muddied by whether or not I should've used a term of endearment.
The elevator pings before the doors open.
I settle my hand on her lower back in a move as familiar as her scent has grown to be and press, steering her forward.
Worry fills me when she lets out a pained sound in her throat as we exit and head left for our room.
Pulling out the key, she tries to put it in the door, but her hand is shaking so badly she can't get it to fit into the slot.
I hear her teeth grind as my hand closes over hers and make her steady, helping her to get the keycard in.
My concern ramps up. A sweltering trickle of trepidation creeps down my spine as she begins to pant now, and her skin breaks out in a fine mist of sweat. The door clicks, and she grabs the handle with everything in her and pushes. She wipes a hand across her top lip on a muffled sob.
“Sarah, breathe,” I remind her calmly as she bursts through the door, dropping her phone and her purse into the foyer floor as she flies through the living space towards the bedroom.
I don't even stop to pick up her things.
Closing the door, I step over them and head through to the bedroom as well, keeping my eyes tight on her.
At the bedroom, I linger in the doorway, one hand on the knob as she turns furiously to face me, her hair whipping.
Though she's in such a state of distress, my mind can't help but whirl.
I've never seen my ex-wife out of sorts like this.
The only other experience I've had with women and panic attacks are through my clients, and I become uncomfortably warm myself, shrugging out of my suit jacket and slinging it across the end of her bed.
"Oh, god," she says in a strained voice, turning to now pace back and forth.
My brows knit with dismay as she yanks off her blazer, lifting her hair off her neck and fanning herself with her hand. Though it's not hot in here, I head to the thermostat.
"Sarah," I say quietly, reaching over to turn the air a bit cooler. "Slow down, honey. You're working yourself into—"
Sarah suddenly claws at her necklace, tearing the necklace off with a shrill cry and then begins yanking off her blouse. It tumbles to the floor at her feet, leaving her in a lacy black bra, but it doesn't seem to offer any relief. Her eyes go slightly unfocused as she keeps tearing at her body.
“Off. Get it off,” she grits through her teeth, yanking her fingers down her arm and ripping off her bracelet.
Seeing she's completely losing her senses to a panic attack, I walk to her and lower, unclasping the strap of her high heel and tugging it off.
She jerks against my hold to help, but in her haste she stumbles and trips.
I move quickly, catching her before she hits the floor.
I sink down to my knees beside her and lower her to the carpet, hearing her pained moans as she now struggles to get her pants off.
Her nails hinder her from unclasping the button.
"Don't push me through the table," she yells, undulating in my arms.
My eyes widen. Oh God.
No.
My heart races as she violently arches. The shadows of her ribcage straining against the thin skin of her torso as she still desperately tries to get her pants off, but she's fumbling too hard.
"Fuck," I curse. Throwing caution to the wind, I unclasp her button and yank, thankful when the material gives and lowers over her hips.
She falls to her back on the carpet, and I pull harder, trying to help get them off around her thrashing.
I get one leg free before she makes another high-pitched noise.